


Daughter of Death

by SwampSpirit



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Demon Deals, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-16
Updated: 2016-08-12
Packaged: 2018-07-24 08:01:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,254
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7500426
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SwampSpirit/pseuds/SwampSpirit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The night before Cassandra joins the first uprising against the Briarwoods, she dreams of a cloud of black smoke.<br/>She dreams of vengeance.</p><p>AU where Cassandra makes the deal rather than Percy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Feast

**Author's Note:**

> This fic mostly stems from my love of the complex relationship Cassandra has with agency and loyalty. It was originally gonna stay closer to canon, but I got the idea of switching the deal and got carried away. Besides, this way you don't know how it ends.  
> A lot of this follows Cassandra's canon backstory, so expect all that entails, especially gore, manipulation, and lots of death (and undeath), but nothing Critical Role fans probably aren't used to.  
> The first few chapters should mostly follow what we know of Cassandra's life before and after the Briarwoods, then slowly begin to diverge from canon.  
> Also, despite my best efforts and beta-ing by the wonderful Kogiopsis, there will be some grammar errors, as that is my nature.

Cassandra liked parties. They were full of colors and people and the very best food.  


The days before parties, on the other hand, came straight from the nine hells.

First there were Mother and Father, rushing around tense as drawn bowstrings, yelling at anyone who dared twitch wrong - be they servants or children.

Whitney and Oliver dealt with the tension by causing as much chaos as possible. Julius showed his nerves by strutting about, talking about the fine lineage of every guest. Vesper, who two years ago would have been off causing trouble with the twins, walked about in a fine dress looking smug and correcting people's posture with a superior, self conscious look, which was honestly worse than the pranks.

Cassandra wasn't sure when Vesper had started trying so hard to grow up. She hoped it wouldn't happen to the rest of them, that they didn't start acting like fun was for children and loud laughter was embarrassing. She looked more like Mother every day.

Percy, of course, was nowhere to be seen. It was hard to pull him from his little makeshift workshop on the best of days, and during a pre-party rampage, the burnt sulfur smell in the entryway was the only hint of him they would get.

Cassandra stayed with Ludwig, who, though barely older than her, appointed himself to damage control. And there was always plenty to do.

Currently they were surveying the kitchen. The twins had put horseradish in the cake batter, and Mother had yelled at the entire staff as if it was their fault. Two of the younger kitchen workers were crying. They were out of buttercream for the new cake, Julius' new coat had ripped, and Percy's lab was now belching stinking clouds into the foyer like a sickly dragon was perched at the top of the basement stairs.

“I'll help in the kitchen,” Ludwig said. He wasn't supposed to, but their parents were too busy to notice, and he was good with food. “Cassie, can you be a dear and ask Percy to do something that  _ doesn't  _ make the entryway smell like something died?”

“He never listens to me.”

“He never listens to anyone, but if anyone has a chance, it's you.”

She nodded. At least it was something to do. It was easy to feel useless with everyone bustling about with she was just supposed to look pretty. She did look nice though: periwinkle skirts with white ribbons. She'd kill Percival if he got something on it.

It was so frustrating. Oliver and Whitney could be funny, but the servants had enough to worry about today.

She went down the stairs to Percy's little lab and looked at the looming, reinforced door with a little glass window, giving it a firm rap. She came here a lot in dreams, when she was being chased. As in reality, Percy was always inside. In her dreams, she would scream and pound on the door, but he would never turn around, never speak. She hated it. She never told anyone, but she hated this damned lab and her damn brother who lived in it.

At least this Percy responded, even if he didn't turn.

“What? I'm working.”

“It's Cassandra.”

“And?”

“And the whole place smells like Julius' shoes.”

Percy sighed.

“I'm almost done. It should be gone when the guests come.”

She stood at the door, thinking. It would not be gone. Percy forgot about time once he was focused on something. He forgot about a number of things, especially other people.

On the other hand, perhaps she could solve two problems. Or solve one problem and exercise a bit of pettiness.

She knocked again

“What? I told you I'd do something about it.”

“Actually, um.... Oliver and Whitney played a really mean prank on some of the servants.”

“Okay? You can't expect me to be surprised.”

“Could you help me... make me a little something to teach them a lesson? Nothing that would really hurt. Just something I could use the servants’ tunnels to leave in their bed and-”

At the mention of a project the door was already partly open.

“Weight triggered? I've been learning about that a bit. It's tricky, especially if they don't sit on it directly, but not impossible. What were you thinking? Noise? No, that might draw attention. Just give them a good scare. Nothing too dangerous. Hmmmm... ”

He wasn't talking to her anymore, but he seemed animated, smiling a bit as he thought. She took the chance to slip in and perch on a bench.

The workshop wasn't so bad from this side of the door. At least it was quiet.

  


-

  


“Dear, you've got soot on your skirt,” Vesper said, dusting it off. She looked perfect, of course, a vision in green satin, hair neatly pinned into brown curls.

Cassandra glanced over at Percy, who had much more soot on his clothes and remained unbothered, but said nothing, letting Vesper wipe it off. She ran her fingers along the two little explosives Percy had made her, careful not to release the switch.

“You know, the Briarwoods have come such a long way,” Julius said, gazing out the window, “And they say they have business. I'd certainly say things are looking bright for the future of Whitestone.”

As the guests filtered in, they all put on their faces. Percy's constant focused look turned into a thin smile. Oliver and Whitney's smiles turned from devious to charming.

Cassandra knew she was losing mileage on cute. At fourteen, little mistakes no longer passed for childish ignorance and wide toothy smiles were immature. Instead, she needed to become charming. Like Vesper. It didn't come naturally to Vesper either, not like Julius, who acted the young lord as soon as he could speak. She was graceful, giving every suitor a spark of hope, but no hint of promise or permission. She dressed right, talked right, and was tense and stressed every hour of every day.

As the guests filtered in, she looked at Vesper for notes on how to stand and act. Cassandra smiled and laughed and feigned interests in tomato crops and royal gossip.

Thankfully she was still  _ just _ too young for suitors. Julius reveled in it, Vesper tolerated it, and Percy politely shut them down without even realizing they were trying to court him. He seemed to find the idea of it absurd, as if a title and inheritance wouldn’t garner interest, regardless of temperment.

When there was a pause, she sidled up to Vesper.

“Such a small gathering.”

It wasn't really, but the house was decked out to show off, which usually prompted their parents to invite every important person they possibly could. Tonight, there were only about twenty guests.

“Ah. Apparently the Briarwoods have asked to keep their arrival fairly quiet.”

She nodded, watching the guests, trying not to fiddle.

When the horn announced the Briarwoods, she couldn't resist peering over the window to catch a glimpse.

Lord Briarwood stepped out of the carriage first, strong frame emphasized by heavy furs, and held out a hand. A thin hand took it and his wife stepped down carefully. The way they moved had an intimacy Cassandra rarely saw among nobility. It wasn't scandalous or inappropriate. Their intimacy was in the way they turned to each other, the way she rested against him a bit as they walked up the drive. It spoke of a warmth and fondness between them that sometimes felt quite foreign in the cold halls of Whitestone.

She brushed out her skirt, suddenly feeling more self conscious.

“What odd servants,” Julius commented, peering out over her.

It was true. They had an odd party with them, including a goliath carrying their trunks.

“There are many creatures between here and Wildmount,” Vesper said, putting a chiding hand on her brother's shoulder. “It's smart to bring protection.”

The Briarwoods entered the hall, doors opened by servants, carrying a gust of snowy air with them.

“Welcome,” Mother said, hurrying to greet them.

“Frederick, Johanna,” Lord Briarwood said, taking both their hands in turn. “It's so lovely to be here.”

His voice was resonant and firm, but had a warmth to it that made Cassandra like him immediately.

Up close, Lady Briarwood was even more impressive. She walked with a poise that seemed neither forced nor arrogant, and it was impossible not to admire her.

“Thank you so much for having us. Ah, I can smell the food from here. And these must be the young de Rolos.”

She turned to give them a smile and Cassandra found herself smiling back sincerely before falling into a curtsy.

“It's wonderful to meet you,” Cassandra said, as her siblings dipped and gave their own formalities.

Plates were filled, seats were taken, and everybody pretended to be enraptured by bland pleasantries. Still, though the Briarwoods kept mostly to themselves, their poise and mystery lent an air of excitement to the room.

Still, as the adults droned on about trade and weather, the younger among them grew bored. Julius had completely given up on the formal conversation and was speaking to a pretty girl next to him, while the twins whispered to each other. Vesper and Ludwig both looked on with polite, glazed expressions. Percival had his sketchbook under the table and she had to resist elbowing him. She would never get away with that. Maybe if Percy wasn't allowed to do whatever he wanted, he wouldn't be so disconnected.

As the last of dessert was finished, she waited impatiently for the adults to disperse.

“What a lovely dinner,” Lord Briarwood said, standing up, and Cassandra breathed a sigh of relief. “I'm afraid now we must get to business.”

And then there was a sword in his hand.

For a second, it seemed to alien, so sudden, that it was meaningless. Then the moment froze. This was a thing of bad dreams and childish fantasies, of adventure and drama. But the sword remained, a black stain on her table and as the world set into motion, she was still held in the moment, trying to understand.

The second the sword was visible, weapons flashed all around the room. Every single person in the Briarwood party was armed in some way. Their own guards drew as well, but some weren't pointing in the right direction.

Before she understood what was happening, there was blood. The young man next to Lord Briarwood didn't have a head. Pelor save them, he didn't have a head. There was burning and screaming and she couldn't even hear the words.

Vesper's face looked thin and drawn, suddenly old and tired and she slumped down. She could hear Ludwig screaming.

There were two small explosives in her pocket. That wasn't enough to hurt anyone, but it would give her cover. She flipped the switches, threw them down, and bolted.

There was no going upstairs. The hall was burning, blocking off escape, and the goliath stood at the main door, the guards dead at his feet. She ran down and left, and, without realizing it, followed the path she did in her dreams to the door of Percy's workshop.

It was empty and she dashed inside. She couldn't lock the door. They'd know somebody was in there. Instead she wedged herself behind an old canister. She'd hidden there once during hide and seek and nobody had found her for hours.

Her nice shoes had blood on them.

Vesper would kill her.

Vesper was probably already dead.

She didn't even know whose blood it was.

She pulled in tighter, trying to be smaller.

Who was alive? She could figure out the rest later. What had happened, what it meant, that was all too much. Who was left?

She couldn't remember.

Had the headless youth been Julius? She tried to picture where he was sitting, if the body had his fine purple vest, but the images blurred. She saw him headless, but she also saw him on the floor, arrow through his throat. She saw so many bloody images, and she couldn't even remember which were real. Had Lord Briarwood been smiling? Had she felt her foot slip in a pool of blood? Had the body she'd tripped over been Whitney?

She didn't know whose blood was on her shoes.

It wasn't Julius who lost his head.

Because she'd heard a choked screaming she knew was him.

She sat and shook and couldn't seem to cry. What kind of monster saw that and didn't cry?

She looked inside herself and there was nothing.

Lord Briarwood's sword shining dark at the end of the table.

Her skin was so cold, her breathing thin, but she wasn't there behind the barrels. She was still in the feast hall, still caught in that frozen moment before the world ended.

She wasn't sure she'd ever leave it.

  
  



	2. Chapter 2

Cassandra had no idea how she'd slept, but she must have because she woke up to a creaking door.

“Amazing,” a voice said. It was a woman's voice, and though the interest was genuine, there was something clinical about the way she chose words. “Look at this place. I knew we were right to keep the boy alive. Sylas may even be able to turn him into quite the asset.”

“You may be right. Perhaps he could even be a tolerable assistant to you.” That voice was Delilah Briarwood. How was it still honey sweet, after what she had done?

“I still think you should have kept the eldest girl. She was bright. She could have been helpful in controlling the town.”

“Too bright. You heard her. She would have fought too hard. Better to make an example of her.”

So Vesper really was dead.

She closed her eyes, willing herself to not flinch, not to sob.

Vesper would never braid her hair. She would never walk into the library in the middle of the night to find Vesper draped sideways over a chair, legs hanging over the armrest, then watch her embarrassed scramble to right herself to a ladylike position.

She’d always hoped, someday, Vesper would stop worrying so much about being an adult. She’d wanted to see Vesper’s careless, wide grin again, hear her laugh until she wheezed. She’d been working so hard to live up to a station she would now never hold. There was no growing up.

For the first time, Cassandra realized it might be the same for her. She might never know what it was like to be older than fourteen. Cut short when she was just getting started.

“And we haven't found the youngest? She'd be good leverage.”

“No, but the twins are protecting each other, and the young boy seems to make good enough leverage. We'll find the tunnel.”

The twins? Hadn’t she seen Whitney’s body? Or was it another girl?

“Unless your husband was too hasty. Frederick was the best bet we had.”

“Doctor, I don't believe you were hired to question our methods. I'd remember your job and stay to that.”

The voice was still sweet, but now it sounded more like what it was, a bloody weapon.

“We have matters in hand,” Lady Briarwood continued. “Now come. You can explore the rest of the lab later, but there is much to do.”

Cassandra didn't move, though she could feel cheers dripping off her chin.

But some were alive. The twins, Ludwig, Percy, maybe others.

There would be time to mourn the dead. She needed to-

She'd need food. And to relieve herself. Would they think to guard the kitchens?

For now, she needed to wait. Let the halls clear. Let people let their guard down. Nobody knew this castle like the twins, and she'd learned plenty from them.

She re-situated herself. For now, she had to wait.

  
  


The tunnels didn't lead right out of Percy's lab.

She stood up slow, dragging her body behind her, limbs numb and heavy. She shucked the bloody shoes. Years of prank battles with Oliver and Whitney had taught her bare feet were quieter. She pulled the petticoat out of her skirt and stuffed it into Percy's furnace, pausing to make sure it burned. This was no time for beauty. She couldn't have it brushing against the edges of the tunnels or rustling if she had to run.

She stared at the door and, for the first time, was scared to open it from this side.

She pushed it open carefully, wincing as it scraped against the floor, and peered out.

Empty. Not even corpses down here. Nobody had made it this far.

No. That was no way to think. If they got to the entry hall, they probably ran for the door rather than the basement. There were people far more powerful and wise than her in this castle. Some of them would have made it out.

The passage was located at the end of the hall.  It wasn't secret or anything. Everyone knew it was there, but rocks had fallen long before she was born and it had been labeled dangerous and useless. The twins, often labeled dangerous and useless themselves, had taken an immediate shine to it. It had taken them months of sneaking out rocks when everyone else was asleep - Cassandra had been recruited to stand watch-  but they had managed to hollow out a hole a determined child could wriggle through if needed.

As they had grown older, however, they'd become too large for that and couldn't remove more without risking the whole area falling on their heads. Last time Cassandra had gone in here, the tunnel's small domain had fallen firmly into the grasp of spiders, which was enough to dissuade further exploration.

After last night, Cassandra didn't think she was scared of spiders anymore. She ventured into the dark tunnel, feeling her way along the walls, ignoring the cobwebs.

When she reached the fallen rocks, she felt around for a way through. She was smaller than the twins, but it was still tight, and she had to force her shoulders through, rocks tearing at her dress. She fought to feel her way through, untangle her hair and skirt from snares, leaving her knuckles raw and bruised.

This was nothing.

She pushed through and up the stairs beyond.  She would be near the dining hall now, but it was too risky, too busy an area.  The servant's passages split from here and she started the trek to her own room.  She could get a change of clothes and gather her things for escape.

As she walked, the air grew thick with smoke. It wasn't like Percy's lab. There was an organic scent mixed with the mechanical, like burnt ham. She steadied herself and forced down the bile in her throat.

She pushed forward until it crowded her lungs and she couldn't help but cough. She could feel the heat through the wall. There was nothing to do but turn around. Instead she headed for the west wing where Mother and Father slept. Had slept.

Thankfully there was no smell of smoke as she crept through the tunnel and found the little door that would let her into the main corridor.

The hall to her parent’s room looked untouched.

It felt like a sick joke, the lovely white hallway standing as if the world hadn't ended, a little vase of blue flowers decorating an alcove.

She wanted to burn the hall, but she doubted Mother would appreciate the symbolism.

Cassandra walked to the room and opened the fine oak door slowly and took a long inhale of the smell of cloves and oil that hung in the air.

But there was a dress on the bed, fine green satin. The Briarwoods’ trunks sat on the floor. The terrible punchline: a new lady had already claimed this house.

There was something she'd meant to grab, something she'd needed, but it slipped from her mind, and she turned around, ready to walk away when somebody stepped in from a side door, arms full of fabric.

She turned, raising her thin arms to defend herself, when she saw the maid's uniform and a familiar tumble of brown hair.

“Annabeth,” she whispered. “Annabeth, turn around!  It's me.”

The woman didn't turn. Perhaps she was afraid to. Cassandra shuffled closer.

“It's Cassandra. Please, you're the first person I've seen since... who else is alive? What's happening in town?”

Silence. Annabeth smoothed the sheets.

“Annabeth I- I order you to turn around.”

She didn't turn right away, but eventually she did, not to face Cassandra, but to dust the mantle.

Her eyes were empty.

From the corner of her mouth, there was a little smear of blood, and across her chest there was a great slash. From this side, her uniform was stained red, blood still fresh.

Cassandra had to clamp her fingers to her mouth to muffle the scream.

Cassandra had heard of the walking dead, but the horror of it had never hit her. In stories, the undead were anonymous, but this was Annabeth. She had a little girl in town. She had an almost comic love of tulips. And here she was walking doing the same chores she had done yesterday.

“A-Annabeth?”

The woman, or at least her body, continued with the errands.

Cassandra ran back for the tunnels, whole body shaking.

If she died, she needed to make sure her body was beyond repair. She would not let her corpse wander these halls without her soul.

  
  


If anyone in her family was still alive, the dungeons were her best shot.

There were no tunnels to the dungeons from the upper floors.They'd been built to house criminals, and no practical architect would give any escaped criminal a route to the upper floors. For most of her life, people were more likely to be locked down there as a prank, but the fact remained if she wanted to get down there, she would have to walk in the open.

Instead she made for the servants quarters. If she was to show herself, she was not doing so in a periwinkle dress. She found a maid’s room and rifled through her things until she found a uniform.

She wore three pairs of socks to make the shoes even start to fit. The dress was baggy and unflattering, built for a grown woman’s frame, but that was fine. There was a body in the hallway and, gritting her teeth, she dipped her fingers into the blood and smeared it in her hair and on the side of her face until it looked as if somebody had bashed her skull. She let down her hair and, in the woman's tiny mirror, tried to make her eyes look blank and dead. It was easier than she had expected. Even before she changed anything, the girl who looked back was a different person.

In a night, the last traces of childhood had faded.

She walked slowly to the dungeons, feeling the rub of ill fitting shoes. They were loud too, but if she was seen somebody might wonder why a servant was shoeless.

As she emerged from the servant's quarters, she saw the first living people. There were even more strangers than had been in the Briarwood's official party, running around, barking orders. No one gave her a second glance and she held her breath, willing her body not to shake, feeling somebody else's blood drip down her cheek.

As she walked to the dungeons, an arm stopped her.

“Girl. What are you doing?”

She didn't gasp, didn't flinch, just turned around slow, face empty.

The man, unfamiliar, gave her a cool, superior gaze she wasn't used to seeing on anyone other than family. Despite his fine clothes, this man looked like a ruffian, yet he looked down on her and sighed.

“Ah. Another of Delilah's then. Go on.”

She turned and shuffled off, arms shaking a bit. _Please let him not be looking_.

As she turned the corner and clutched her arms. Her shaking grew as the footsteps faded, vision blurring with white, breathing picking up. She sank into a crouch.

No. No this was not the time. She could fall apart later. Right now she was alive. Her family might still be alive and if she fell apart now she would die.

She forced her way to her feet and kept walking down to the dungeons. Streaks of red on the stairs told her she was not the first to come this way, and that those who'd come before may have been carrying corpses.

She stepped gingerly, shedding her shoes again and listening for footsteps.

Cassandra knew the smell of old death, mostly from loving sibling activities like leaving a dead mouse in Whitney's shoes. This was different. The smell down here wasn't as rancid, but it was strong. As she walked, she began to see people in the cells. Bodies.

She recognized so many of them, servants and teachers now hollow shells of themselves, burnt  and missing limbs. She wanted so badly to look away, but she had to know.

Ludwig's was the first familiar corpse. He was so pale. His usually bright face had settled almost into a frown and the skin was ashen and purple where the blood had pooled. There were no wounds, but there was no soul. Still, she took his hand though the bars. She couldn't forgive herself if she didn't try. And hadn't the dead already walked tonight?

“Ludwig?”

Her voice was so quiet, trembling more than she'd expected.

“Please. Please wake up. I need you here.”

His skin was cold.

She let go.

“I'm so sorry,” she told him, not sure for what, but she felt it in her chest, heavy and sickening.

She kept walking. Please. Any of them.

Oliver and Whitney had both had their throats cut. They were wedged among the other bodies like old dolls, Whitney splayed over the top while only Oliver's arm showed from the bottom. They'd killed him first.

The door still hung open. None of the people in here would be trying to escape.

She pulled him out, dragging him to the top and putting him next to his twin.

They should be together. They were always together.

There was blood up her arms now, but she didn't feel it.

Their mother had been burned. The burns weren’t the wide swaths of char some of the bodies had. These were deliberate and meticulous.

And across from her... there was Percy. At first she thought he was another corpse. He was alone in his cell, slumped against the wall, but when he heard her he looked up. For a moment, his eyes were empty, but they widened as he recognized her.

“Cassandra?” His voice was raw, as if he'd been yelling for hours. “Is that you?”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading my fic so far: Cassandra de Rolo looks at various corpses for 4000 words.


	3. The Last de Rolo

People often wondered how Cassandra seemed to know more about Percy than the rest of their family did.  The truth was that they both had trouble sleeping.

Cassandra's nightmares had started when she was very young, and there was no sleeping afterwards. She was never quite sure why she had them. Mostly likely, it was simply a nervous disposition combined with a room in a cold, lonely hall. Regardless, once they woke her up, trying to fall back asleep was pointless.

On those nights, she would make her way down to the library. Even before she could read, it offered soft seats, warm lantern glow, and a view of the city. In the city, she could watch all the flickering lights of lanterns and fires and remind herself the world had not died during the night.

Percival, as far as she knew, was not awake due to nightmares. He just always had a thousand things he wanted to do more than sleep.

The first time they had crossed paths, she pale and shaking, he sprawled out with a heavy book on Celestial on his knee, he'd wordlessly moved to make room and let her lean against him. It was the first time she could remember him actually allowing anything like that. After a bit, he started reading the book out loud. It was mind-numbingly dull, but she didn't mind.

She drifted off to sleep to a long section on the past tense and had the best sleep she'd had in weeks.

It became a regular occurrence. Some weeks she'd have bad dreams every night, and he'd just happen to have a glass of warm tea and be reading a book of fairy tales.  They didn't really talk much. He never asked what she dreamed of, and she never tried to tell him.

 

She'd thought, if it was Percy, things would be alright. It wasn't that he was her favourite. He was just so solid. Even as a child, she'd never seen him cry.  He would protect her. He would get them out.

She'd been wrong. The Percy in front of her was shattered.

He had the same burns as Mother, though far less of them, angry red stripes where the skin bubbled and broke. His lovely coat was slashed in places, a darker red seeping through.

“Percy...”

“They're dead, Cassandra. I couldn't stop it.”

“I know. Percy, we need to go.”

“They threw Vesper off the tower when she fought. I didn't fight. I should have tried harder.”

She scrabbled at the lock. She didn't want to be here. She didn't want to see her family's bodies left around like refuse. She didn't want to hear him talk like this.

“I'm so sorry. I'm so-”

“Percy stop. Please. We're getting out of here.”

Her hands were clumsy and shaky, but Vesper, in her wilder days, had taught Cassandra how to pick locks harder than this.

She went back to Whitney’s body and dug a pick out of her pocket and for a few minutes there was nothing but metal scraping against metal as she opened the door, then the manacles on Percy’s arms and legs.

She pulled him to his feet.

“Percy, I need you here with me. Come on.”

He looked at her hair.

“Your head. Are you okay?”

“It's not mine.”

It felt shameful to admit it. The only de Rolo not covered in their own blood.

“Good.”

He leaned on her a bit, but as they walked through the quiet dungeon, he managed to support himself a bit more.

She kept opening her mouth, but there were no words. Instead she grabbed his hand, holding tight like they were children again, pulling him towards the exit. They were all taught this tunnel. It was.... for things like this. If the family ever needed to get out.

“It'll be okay,” she whispered, pulling when his steps faltered.

“How?”

“It just will.”

Curse him; she could barely hold herself together. She couldn't hold him together too.

“Alright.”

The tunnel was dark. Why hadn't she thought to bring a torch?

Percy's hand didn't shake. With her free hand, she felt along the wall, both of them stumbling over rocks and rubble.

“They won't get away with it,” Percy said. “Somebody will notice.”

Their hands were both cool and clammy.

In a way, she wanted to ask. What had they done to him? How had Mother died? But she didn't want to make him say it. And really, she didn't want to know.

When they reached the mouth of the tunnel, even the dark night sky seemed bright.

“How long has it been?” she asked Percy. Since the feast. At least one night. Maybe two? Were they looking for him yet?

“I don't know. I-”

He clapped a hand over her mouth, pulling her close, letting go as soon as he saw she wasn’t going to speak.

Behind them she heard two men shouting, voices getting closer.

“-llow the blood,” one was saying. “He went this way.”

They both stared across the snowy ground. The voices were close, but they’d be easy targets out there.

“Cassandra,” Percy told her quietly, tightening his grip on her hand so much it hurt, “when we leave this cave, run as fast as you can, okay? Don't stop until we reach the trees.”

She nodded. He stripped off his crimson waistcoat, though it didn't help much as the white shirt underneath was almost as red.

“Ready?” he asked. “Run!”

They were both tired and hungry, but their shaking legs carried them with surprising speed. With his longer legs, he ran ahead, pulling her after.

She heard the first arrow whiz past, but there was nothing to be done about that. Just keep running.

Two missed before one finally struck, burying itself in her leg. She gave a shout of pain, stumbling and nearly pitching forward. Percy didn't slow, pulling her forward without not looking back. She couldn’t bend the knee without searing pain, but adrenaline carried her. An arrow took Percy in the shoulder and he didn’t even cry out, a fresh gout of blood running down his arm and warming her hand.

They only made it a few more feet before another arrow caught her in the back. 

She was too shocked to cry out, so there was just the thunk of the arrow embedding itself in flesh, the sharp exhale of air forced out of her lungs.

Percy kept pulling but she couldn't keep going. Another arrow struck, then another, and her last well of strength began to drain. She stumbled and fell, and finally Percy turned around.

She smelled something odd and chemical and little spots of gold swarmed her vision.

She tried to call out to him, but her mouth felt numb and clumsy.

He let go of her hand.

Her hand fell and she slumped into the snow.

So this was how the de Rolo line ended.

Cassandra de Rolo would die an anonymous maid, bleeding out ten feet from safety.

And Percival de Rolo would run.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow a chapter where more things actually happened! Also the most of Percy you'll see for a bit, though I do have plans.  
> Also, cool author fact! I pass out due to lack of blood to the brain.... a lot. I keep a tally of "businesses I have fainted in", but it means I actually have pretty good ref for the experience of bleeding out without the whole bleeding and dying part, which I think is pretty cool.


	4. Chapter 4

Poets often seemed to speak about death as if it was a choice, something you could fight.

When the end came, Cassandra did not fight it.

She was so very tired.

She'd kept it together. Just in case. Just in case there was something left to live for, but she was beaten and bloody, and there was nothing left. There was no one left. It wasn't so bad, really. Even the pain got fuzzy. She was free.

She drifted off to sleep.

What she hadn't expected was to wake up again.

She didn't understand at first. She had the same kind of blurry thoughts that came with a fever. She was the Suntree, roots tangled in the earth, growing, burning. She was screaming for help in endless empty halls. She called for Mother, for Vesper, for Percy, for Pelor, for salvation, for death. None came. She dreamed.

Eventually reality began to intrude. She woke somewhere strange and dark. She still smelled burning, and she wasn't sure if something was on fire or the scent was just part of her now.

She was alone. Her whole body was heavy and unresponsive. She moved her mouth. The lips were chapped and sore, but functional. Her tongue was dry and tasted like vomit and cotton.

“Hello?”

She recognized this place. She'd gone here for services. Looking up at the ceiling, she could see char marks, a dark hole where the chandelier had been anchored.

She tried to turn her head but the movement went right down her spine like a bolt of lightning and she cried out in pain.

Father Rynal rushed in.

“Lady Cassandra. You're awake. ”

He looked in worse shape than she'd last seen him, gold and red robes scorched and dirty.

“Percy?” she asked, starting to shake again. Every tremor brought a fresh stab of pain.

“Calm down,  my lady,” he said, touching his fingers to the back of her neck as they began to shine with pale light. Her back went pleasantly numb. “You'll hurt yourself more. There's damage to your spine and we must be very careful.”

“Where's Percy?”

“Percival. I'm... I can't tell you, lady Cassandra. You're the only one we've found.”

She relaxed her muscles and let herself slump into the pillows.

“Oh.”

“Cassandra, your family. Did anyone else... is there....?”

She closed her eyes.

“No. No they're all gone. Percy was the last one.”

She couldn't move her hands to wipe away the tears. At least it was safe to cry now. For Vesper and Julius. For Mother and Father and Oliver and Whitney and Ludwig and Annabeth and the maid whose blood was in her hair. For Percy, who was either dead, or had never come back for her.

There were a few tears for herself too.

It was quiet crying, fit for a church. That was for the best. The real sadness in her would have torn her broken body in half if she tried to let it out.

The tears and snot pooled in her throat and she started to choke and cough, unable to turn her head to breathe, but the tears kept coming.

Rynal pressed his hands to her temples.

“Sleep for now. We'll protect you. Whitestone will protect you, Lady Cassandra.”

 

The next few weeks weren't dignified.

As a daughter of the de Rolos, she was used to some assistance, doing up corsets or taking her dishes. It was another matter to need help using the bathroom or lifting food to her mouth. Rynal seems used to it, though, and she adjusted.

That's what she'd been learning lately. One adjusted.

She adjusted to the lack of privacy. She adjusted to that painful, sickening weight in her chest. She adjusted to the blinding pain every time she tried to move. She adjusted to waking up screaming. It didn't get less painful, but pain slowly became a boring fact. You managed or you didn't.

She didn't want to manage. She wanted to fall apart. She wanted to die, but Rynal reminded her that she was hope, she was the last de Rolo, she was all Whitestone had left. He seemed to think it gave her hope. Instead, it gave her duty. She kept living because Whitestone needed her to.

Ludwig would have known what to say. She tried to imagine what it was, what words would even put a dent in this pain, but she had nothing. She wasn't him.

She knew what Percy would say: They were nobles. With the luxuries came a responsibility to the people. All of Whitestone was in pain. All of them had lost loved ones. But she was saved when others were left to die. She took up resources that could have gone to others. Being a noble meant she was given things others were not. In turn, it was her duty to carry certain burdens.

Imaginary Percy helped, a bit. She wondered if he would use that same cool practicality to justify himself. What would staying have done? Left two corpses. He couldn't have saved her.

She wanted to tell him that there were things worse than death, and, having died, she could tell him watching him walk away had been so much worse.

She wanted him to be dead so she wouldn't have to face him. She wanted him to be alive so she could tell him how much she hated him. She wanted him to be alive so he could hold her and she could cry and tell him how much she missed him.

She wanted all of Whitestone to burn like it did in her dreams so there was no one left to need her.

But she did her duty.

She ate the food, watery and stale compared to her usual fare. She lay still as people read her stories and scripture and she didn't really listen to the words.

She didn't tell them she was still in the feast hall, still watching as Lord Briarwood drew the sword.

It was worst when she heard their names or when she stepped into something wet. She didn't like to see boys Ludwig's age. The smell of cooked meat made her gag. It seemed every day she found a new thing that now felt unbearable.

Eventually she was considered stable enough to be kept up with the news. She was, after all, the bearer of the de Rolo title now. The town, her town, in ruins, served the Briarwoods. Dead walked the streets. Every day there was more news, another body hanging from the Suntree. She tried to muster horror, shock, but it all felt distant, like something she'd read in a book as a child.

How terrible, some part of her thought, if this was her world, her Whitestone overrun by horror. How horrific to imagine her own family being slaughtered.

But that was not her Whitestone, not her de Rolos. If it was, how could she go on?

So she listened to the news, made the right faces, offered comfort and inspiration to the grieving and weary. She worked each day to turn her head, move her feet.

In her dreams, she ran. They were bleary wandering dreams, but they were always in the castle, her castle, and it was always burning.

 

“Rynal?”

“Lady Cassandra?”

She was being hidden in a house now, rather than a shrine. They dressed her in peasant clothes, albeit nice ones. Right now she was propped up halfway in bed, watching the light through the shutters catch flecks of dust.

“I'd like a weapon.” He looked at her like she'd asked for a pet basilisk, but she went on. “Nothing obvious or dramatic. Maybe a small knife? One that I could conceal?”

“You are in no state to fight, and you know we will protect you. Why do you feel you need a weapon?”

Because she had watched her family all die. Because it always felt like they were coming for her. Because she'd learned that, when it came down to it, there was nobody she could rely on.

“I know. I know you all would protect me. And I know I can't do much with one. It's just... comforting. I'd be careful.”

Rynal sat down next to her.

“You know Cassandra, we haven't really talked. About what happened to you. Many people come to me lately. They find talking about it can help. You have seen things nobody should, especially not somebody so young.”

She clutched her hands, forcing herself to sit up.

If she told him how she felt, would he hate her? For not feeling, for not caring. For all the black thoughts that lurked behind the numbness.

“I think for now I'd just like a knife.”

He put a comforting hand on her back and she forced herself not to move away.

“If you need a knife, we'll get you the best we can find. We will keep you safe, Cassandra.”

She nodded.

Her hands twitched.


	5. Orthax

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A deal is struck

There was a rebellion brewing in Whitestone.

Cassandra tried to be ready. She practiced with her new blade every day. It was a beautiful thing, fit for a lady. The handle was inlaid with patterns of winding leaves, the blade a shining silver. More importantly, it was sharp, light, and durable. Still, it took getting used to. Cassandra was used to the reach and weight of her sword, but her training wasn’t useless. Years of practice had taught her how to turn a technique into an instinct, how to read an opponent's next move. She was at least better than most of the peasants who she trained with.

Rynal clearly didn't approve, but most people liked it. There was a de Rolo, ready to fight with the rest of them, a beacon of hope.

It was something to do.

Of course she wanted the Briarwoods dead. She was glad to aid that cause. But what then? Put a fourteen year old in power? She couldn't even make herself say the Briarwoods’ name.

The one blessing was being around people her own age. There were no children of her class in Whitestone, which meant her siblings and her had been forced to find companionship in each other, or, in one case, their tinkering. No one had the courage to speak to her, but it was still comforting, especially as she looked more like one of them than before. She had calluses on her hands and scars on her body. More than that, something in her face had changed. It wasn't just the way it had thinned out with sickness or was tired by nightmares. She looked far older, even than Vesper. She looked like the kind of person she had been raised to avoid.

She spent every free moment training. There wasn’t much else to fill her day. She did her hair, sat quietly through her healing, and listened to the rebel's plan. She tried to offer advice when she could, but her ideas were far less important than her name, so mostly she listened intently and tried to look inspiring. Other than that, she practiced with her blade. She stretched her legs and strengthened her arms. She even taught some of the citizens to use the sword.

Her favourite times were the rare moments where she was completely alone. She’d had to push to be allowed a dagger. There were some skills nobody was going to teach her. She replayed that night over and over thinking of how she could have been faster, better, safer. She bent her hairpins until she could use them to open locks. She practiced walking quietly and climbing into hidden places. Even in her dreams, she used what she knew. She walked the burning halls silently. When she dreamed of closed doors, she could find a way to open them.

Tonight she walked the hallways of the castle barefoot. The more she walked, the thicker the smoke in the air got. She coughed, then choked as it filled her lungs, but she couldn't stop walking. There was something she needed at the end of this endless hall.

The smoke filled her eyes and lungs but, at some point, the sting had gone. She walked through the darkness silently. She was so close now.

“ _ Where is your dagger?” _

The voice didn’t seem to come from any place in the darkness. Rather, it felt like the darkness itself spoke. Its voice was the pull of water at her feet just before the wave crashed, the pull of something tempting and deadly and far beyond her.

These days, she wore her dagger everywhere, hanging at her waist, but in her dreams, she only ever wore that same beautiful, stained dress. She wasn’t surprised when her hands gathered nothing but fabric.

“ _ What are you doing, girl? What do you want?” _

Whatever was at the end of this hallway. Her hands twitched, and she pointed forward.

The voice laughed, a deep, cruel laugh.

“ _ Well, you need a weapon if you want that.” _

“Then give me one,” she told it. It was nice to have something she didn't need to be polite to. She held out her hand.

For a moment, the smoke seemed to thin. Instead of dissipating, however, it rushed to the floor in front of her. It pulled together, twisting until something almost human stood before her. It hung in the hair in front of her, form almost reaching the high ceiling, birdlike face staring down at her with empty eyes.

“ _ Even with a blade, you wouldn't be much good. You're so scared. You're prey. I could make you the predator.” _

She clasped her hands tight behind her back to hide the shaking and stared back, waiting for it to continue.

“ _ Child, there is such a fire in your heart, but you are keeping it in. Don't you want to burn bright? Don't you want to take what's yours?” _

She could feel it, under all the ice, fluttering and warm.

There was so much hatred.

She'd lost her home, her childhood, her family. She was so tired of being good and nice and inspiring. She wanted to be furious. She wanted to burn. 

“Of course I do.”

So she did. The smoke billowed for her now as her skin burned, but she didn't mind the smoke or the smell anymore.

In her hand was her knife.

“Alright.”

“ _ You'd like to make a deal?” _

“If it will help me destroy them.” She held out her hand.

The smoke curled around it and she could feel it smiling somehow.

“ _ Don't you want to know the terms?” _

“I don't care. I have nothing left I care about losing.”

“ _ And I have so much to offer. This will be a wonderful arrangement, Cassandra.” _

It lifted her hand, polite and formal as if it were asking for a dance at a ball.

She knew what was at the end of the hall now. She knew what she needed.

They walked forward together. The smoke flowed into her and she saw the Briarwoods clearly. They looked at her and their smiles fell. She watched their eyes go wide, their hands raise in fear. She felt the shadow’s hand on hers as, together, they lifted the knife. She watched the blood run from the Briarwoods’ throats and she felt her heart pounding in her chest. She hadn't been this alive in months.

“We'll kill them,” she told the knife. “We will watch the Briarwoods die.”

_ “Yes.” _

She realized that, for the first time, she had said their names without fear

It was like Vesper told her when she was scared of a spider and Vesper crushed it with her shoe.

“They get a lot less scary when you realize how easy they are to kill.”

 

She woke up with her heart racing.

Her hands were shaking, but she wasn't scared anymore. She  _ wanted _ . She'd forgotten what that was like, to want something so bad it clawed at her ribs.  _ Vengeance, vengeance, vengeance _ . It wasn't exactly a happy feeling, but it was elating. She couldn't stop smiling.

Her hand scrambled for the knife under her pillow. The surface was no longer silver but a deep, shining black. When she ran her finger along the edge it bit into the skin, far sharper than she remembered.

As she turned it in the light, she noticed something else. There were faint scratches along the blade.  It was her handwriting, sloppy and jagged, like she’d pressed in every line with all her strength, but under the right light, she could read them.

Sylas Briarwood. Delilah Briarwood. Anna Ripley. Those were the easiest to see. Lighter, there were other names. Stonefel. Anders. Tylieri. Grabon. Vedmeyer.

She knew what it meant. Maybe it was whatever she’d spoken to, whispering into her heart. Maybe it was simply her own desire. The knife wanted them.

Pelor, she wanted this. She wanted them to know half of what they'd done to her. 

She tucked the knife away, pulled her hair into a neat braid, and made her way into the house's little kitchen. It was a lovely little home, yellow wallpaper with little white flowers and neat stacks of plates and bowls.

Who had lived here before? Somehow, she'd never bothered to wonder. She knew the Briarwoods had left plenty houses empty. How had they died?

Trisha, her morning guard, was sitting at the little table. Cassandra liked her. She kept an eye on Cassandra without hovering around her or pestering her with questions or admiration. She gave Cassandra a half hearted smile but her shoulders were bent with deep exhaustion. The Briarwoods had been attempting to wipe out dissent and it wasn’t just hurting the revolution. Every day another trade route was shut down or another blacksmith was missing.

“I'm going to the courtyard,” she told Trisha, who gave a distracted nod as she looked over a piece of paper.

The courtyard was an affectionate nickname for the alleyway they'd subtly blocked off with the burnt debris that littered the town. People could train there without catching notice of the new city guards or the walking corpses of the old ones. It seemed to be empty this morning. The rest of the revolution was sleeping in or had more important things to do.

Now that she was used to the feel of the knife, she liked it. It was lighter than her sword but balanced closer to the hilt, solid and reassuring in her hand.. Over and over she went through the basic moves: step, duck, slash, step. She shadow still hung behind her skin, smoke running through her veins. It didn't want to cut through empty air. It wanted to feel the soft resistance of skin and push through until it hit bone.

“Well I'm not going to just cut somebody up for practice,” she muttered to the blade, words coming out with an unexpected wheeze. Gods, her chest hurt.

She had been so careful in her training to never get too worked up. Her lungs, Father Rynal told her, were still healing. A short walk could leave her winded. She'd overheard him talking to a guard too. He'd had to heal her lung quickly, and part of it was.... pinched up now. She didn't understand the details, but he'd said unless he cut her open again she'd probably never breathe as well, since the tissue was technically healed. The was no injury for magic to fix, just a very inconvenient scar.

It hurt more than she expected. She always thought she was getting used to pain, but it always managed to blindside her. 

She tried to get more air, but the breaths got sharper and more useless. The cold air felt as if it was tearing her throat. It felt almost like she was going to suffocate. She gasped for air, but it wasn't enough. She couldn’t even call to Trisha, who was just inside, ready to help if anything sounded wrong. She scrambled to get the knife into its sheath so she couldn't hurt herself as she found purchase on the wall.

This would be such a fucking stupid way to die. Cassandra de Rolo survived the Briarwoods and then died in the midst of a mild morning workout.

She fell against the wall, vision starting to blur and spark.

_ Child! Calm yourself! You are not dying. _

Even as the noises of the streets slurred, the voice in her mind was as clear and real as it had been in her dream. She tried to listen to it but all she could think of was struggling for air. Each breath tripped over the next, and her throat burned with desperate gasps.

_ Pathetic. What can you accomplish like this? Cassandra, you have something you must do. _

Her hand was on the knife again, pulling it out and gripping it so hard the pommel bit into her hand. The voice was right. She had no reason to be afraid. She wouldn't die here. There was so very much left to do.

She sat in the mud, water dripping down her face. She couldn't even remember when it had started raining. She tipped her face up and let it wash away the sweat and cool her skin.

“Lady!” The guard pulled her upright and for a second her head lolled, still looking up.

She blinked, gathering herself. 

“Oh, yes. Sorry. I got caught up.”

She gave when she knew was a thin, unconvincing smile.

“You need to get inside.  It’s… things are happening.”

She could hear it now. Through the rain there were people yelling.

“What’s going on?”

“Rynal was found dead in the church. The rebellion happens tonight.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And we FINALLY officially diverge from canon.  
> Hey Orthax!  
> Sorry for the pause. I've been getting my webcomic launched. And since this is half apology and half shameless plug, you should check it out at https://rethe-comic.com/ if you are comically inclined.


End file.
